Call to War
by K.L. Burrell
Summary: In all your years, you never imagined allowing yourself to sign up for this type of work. A slow burn, Medic/Reader-insert for your pleasure.


Each second closer to the imposing compound of Teufort nearly brings you into a nervous breakdown. Last minute dread clashes with a begrudging sort of optimism you didn't know you were capable of, and your heart becomes a hummingbird, fluttering against your ribs in a panicked staccato.

You distract yourself with the scenery passing by in muted blurs of red and brown and the occasional flash of dying greens. Powdery dust floats _everywhere_ – sticking to your clothes and skin, flying behind the car in great plumes. This place is a fucking wasteland.

And you hate it just a little bit.

Next to you, at the wheel, is Miss Pauling, a woman you had only barely met, but her smile, if not slightly strained with fading pity, is easy, and you allow yourself to relax into the scorched leather of your seat.

You aren't sure how you feel about the painful silence until Miss Pauling breaks it.

"How are you feeling?" her voice is jovial, kind. You wonder how it could be.

There's an answer on your lips, you know there is. Thankfully, the woman sitting in the driver's seat is patient, and out of the corner of your eye, that easy smile is back, and the pity has left and in its place is gentle amusement, you note with an odd mixture of relief and bemusement.

"I'm nervous," you blurt out. _Way to go_.

Miss Pauling's chuckle is just as kind as her voice. "I'm sure you'll do just fine," she assures you. "After all," she adds after a moment, " _you_ are the one we chose to take on in the first place."

Her words are only slightly calming, and a small grin tugs at your lips as a huff of a laugh spreads out into the stuffy air.

You close your eyes and think back to several weeks ago, reading the contract – being more-than-slightly horrified at what it entailed, giving in and signing it, and effectively sealing your fate for the next few years if all went as well as it could go. At first, you had convinced yourself that you were in it for the slaughter, to do some killing because _fuck_ , the world wasn't fair – Christ, it had taken your father from you, hadn't it? It wasn't until you sat down after a fit of sobbing rage – rage at being _pushed_ to even _consider_ such a nightmarish life, that you had realized that the pay was substantial. It'd keep your mother from teetering over the edge of bankruptcy you've seen her on for the past several years. It'd give you something to _do_.

Your father wouldn't be proud but damn it, you're angry that he's not here with you.

Unwanted tears line your eyes as memories of his smile – never the same after the war, your mother always told you – but it was the smile you grew up seeing, hesitant and soft, but never quite reaching his perennially tormented eyes.

Torture was a hell of a thing, you surmised.

 _Stop. He's gone now._

You violently blink away those offending tears and look up as Teufort's compound breaks through the wavering horizon, a fortified giant. Its metal roofing gleams in the harsh sunlight.

Instantly, the din of your heart echoes in your ears faster, faster, and faster. You're not ready, there's no way you're –

"You remember the rules, don't you?" the question is so unexpected that, at first, you say nothing at all. All at once you realize that she's keeping you from working yourself into another nerve-riddled panic. You're grateful.

 _Speak, idiot._ "Yes, ma'am. I do," your voice is hoarse.

Miss Pauling tells you them again anyway for good measure. "No personal questions, don't tell anyone your name, and absolutely _no_ Company sabotage," her voice turns hard on the last rule.

"I understand, ma'am," you say with a firm nod, voice stronger.

Your words seem to ease Miss Pauling back into that state of poised _calm_. Elegant hands lessen their sudden white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel.

You sigh tiredly, settle back into the leather, pick at a loose thread in your shirt. And today is only going to get stranger, you remember with a dull crack of disappointment.

The compound is just ahead now, and all at once you wish you were back home, struggling with your mother just to make ends meet. Shouldering two jobs on top of preventing your mother from reaching for that damn liquor cabinet.

Now you just have one. It's all you'll ever need. Things are going to get _better_.

You're not sure if this is as reassuring as it's supposed to be.

Miss Pauling stops the car just outside of Teufort's compound and looks at your pale face. You're thankful when she decides to not tell you how you're going to do great again.

"We'll have to walk from here. Don't forget your things," she reminds you as she straightens her crisp purple blouse, not a hair out of place.

You wonder how she can stay so prim in this hellish mess of a job.

With no small amount of embarrassment, you brush red dust from your pants and wipe it from your face. You open the back seat's door and pull your knapsack from it along with a lengthy canvas case.

You cradle the case in your arms tenderly, as if it contains a precious treasure – which to you, it very much does. One of the only things your father had left to give you before his passing. You hug it closer to your chest, and you feel a little safer.

After you sling the knapsack and case over your shoulders, you follow Miss Pauling through the tall barb-wired fence and into a large courtyard. Across the way is a building, plain and unassuming save for a large sign, the word RED garishly painted in… well, red paint.

Miss Pauling leads you towards a set of beaten double-doors. Your heart flutters against your chest again, but you steel yourself just enough to not look like a complete idiot.

With one last kind glance in your direction, she opens the doors and motions for you to enter. You're proud when you don't hesitate to walk ahead.

You didn't expect to be greeted by an empty, half-assed mess hall. The breath you didn't realize you had been holding rushes from your lungs. You turn to Miss Pauling, waiting for her to explain.

"Oh, the boys'll be here in a minute. I swear they do this stuff just to spite me," despite her words, her voice is laced with dubious affection. She fixes you with a stare; green eyes glint knowingly behind glasses. "I'm sure they'll take to you."

"My job sort of depends on it," you say.

"Among other things, Mule."

It's an odd feeling, hearing your title – and new name, unfortunately – spoken aloud. But you've made your bed, and now you have to sleep in it, shitty mattress and all.

Miss Pauling leans against one of the counters, legs crossed amicably – a strange juxtaposition of her outwardly professional nature. "Once the introductions are over, you'll get settled in, and then you'll be calibrated into the Respawn system. You know that the rest of your things are already in your bunk. Oh, and work starts at seven-hundred."

It's a lot to take in, really.

"Yeah," you mutter. You can't blame yourself; you're not great with words.

Respawn interests you though, and you're tempted to ask Miss Pauling more on the subject. You bite your tongue before you let yourself speak. You figure that the little information you _do_ possess of the death-cheating system will be expanded on when the time calls for it.

You study the mess hall, and across the room is another equally beaten door, and Miss Pauling seems to be staring at it, frowning. It doesn't sit well on her pretty face.

"I'm sorry you have to wait on them," she says out of the blue.

You shrug, "it's fine."

"Either way, they should know better."

"Eh," another shrug.

And you're honestly fine with the other nine mercenaries taking so long. It could stay like that for the rest of the evening.

Miss Pauling decides to say nothing after this and for a moment you feel like you should apologize.

 _Good going_. Technically day one and you're already looking _and_ sounding like an asshole. You force a smile onto your face, hoping that Miss Pauling would see past your shitty social skills.

Then again, shitty social skills are one of the reasons you were chosen for this fucking job in the first place. It still doesn't make you feel any better about it.

You scuff the floor with your boots, tracing aged scratches and divots, and your hands tighten on the canvas straps of the case resting at your back.

You nearly jump when the sound of loud footsteps and rowdy laughter and shouting comes echoing from just outside of that foreboding door. And beside you Miss Pauling straightens, back into that mode of stoic professionalism you admire. "Show time," is all she says before the door is flung wide open.

 **I want to begin this by saying that PurpleCompromise is my inspiration for this whole thing, and it wouldn't be here for you all to read if it wasn't for her tremendous help! Any feedback is welcome (and highly encouraged)! I'll try to keep the updates as swift as I can. And trust me when I say that this is the first time in a very long time that I've posted anything, and this is also my first reader-insert. It's a doozy, I tell you.**


End file.
